Page 112 of Where the Snakes Sleep

My stomach twists again.

I fold forward, elbows on my knees, fingers threading into my hair.

I hate that Alberte reminds me of me—that might be the worst part of the fucking journal.

I should despise him, and some parts of me do, because he knew things were wrong years before anyone disappeared; he watched Henri hide things and accepted explanations because confrontation was harder.

Nadia came to him frightened, and he told her to wait, and then she was gone.

Then Fournier came to him privately, gave him a card, told him to call from somewhere safe, and he turned around and gave that fucking card to Henri. And boom, Fournier’s dead.

How do you live with that?

“You fucking coward,” I whisper hoarsely, staring at Alberte’s final entry through blurred vision. “You knew.” The accusation hits stone and dies. “You fucking knew.”

I want him alive suddenly.

I want him alive so I can ask him how he slept.

How he woke up every morning knowing a little boy was waiting for a mother Alberte believed Henri murdered.

How he went to Virginia.

Bought groceries.

Got older.

Had birthdays.

Christmases.

Whatever the fuck else people do with decades.

How do you live twenty-three years after writing I killed Nadia Moreau without telling her son what happened?

He promised her.

Nadia made him promise.

“Why didn’t you tell him?” My voice breaks, and my stomach folds in on itself. I put the journal down again before I tear it.

Maybe Alberte was afraid.

Obviously he was afraid.

Henri had already made people disappear.

He believed the documents would be the only thing to keep him alive.

I understand fear.

Fuck, I understand it so well that it makes me sick.

How many times did I stay with Paul because leaving seemed bigger and more dangerous than enduring one more day?

How many times did I tell myself something wasn’t really abuse because admitting it was abuse would require me to do something about it?

How many times did I accept an apology because the alternative was recognizing that the man I loved was choosing to hurt me?